


No Rest for the Witches

by sheepsinthenight



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Autumn, Beekeeping, Borrowing, Character Study, Gen, Lancre, Post Lords and Ladies, Seasonal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22483762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepsinthenight/pseuds/sheepsinthenight
Summary: Granny Weatherwax finally gets some peace and quiet. There's plenty of work to be done to prepare the bees for winter, especially since the elves disgruntled the swarm at midsummer. Nobody's been by her cottage for days. That's a good thing, right? But where's everybody gone?
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	No Rest for the Witches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ilthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/gifts).



> Written for the 2019 Hogswatch Fanworks Exchange :) My prompt was, "Life isn't all witching, sometimes people do leave you alone."

October descended upon the kingdom of Lancre like a falcon plummeting towards an unlucky sparrow. Summer’s last asters withered overnight. In the frosty dawn, the forested hillsides glittered gold. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the ice melted away, revealing trees blushing orange and carmine.

Today was the day Granny Weatherwax would begin overwintering the bees.

Like any experienced apiarist, her winter preparations actually began in August. Toward summer’s end, she started keeping a closer eye on the frames they’d filled. The troubles at midsummer had disrupted the hive’s usual activity. The bees lost a half-month of pollen gathering and had never made up for it. 

Now, their low honey stores were the last remaining evidence of the elves. As such, the problem vexed Granny personally.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much she could do. Bees needed honey. They hadn’t made enough. A few of the hive boxes were probably going to die. But the old witch wasn’t going to let them go without a fight.

Granny Weatherwax began her morning by sweeping up the leaves that had gathered in drifts around the hive boxes. An enormous, yellow maple loomed over the back of her cottage, sheltering the boxes from too much sun or rain. Despite the tree’s usefulness in summer, she knew that in colder months, errant leaf-litter could cause damp mold to grow up the wooden base. She pushed her small piles briskly to the edge of the clearing.

Once she finished sweeping, she disappeared into her cottage and reemerged holding a hammer, a box of nails, and several squares of woven wire mesh. The wire had come from Ankh-Morpork: a gift from King Verence. Lately, Verence had been sending Shawn on errands to give her all sorts of odd things. Granny approved, in her unconcerned, prideful way. Generosity toward witches was sensible kingly behavior. 

She approached the nearest hive and set her tools down beside it. A steady, strong hum from inside greeted her. She slid a square of mesh over the little hole in the bottom box from which bees came and went.

The bees that bobbed near the entrance gently bobbed to either side. The swarm’s mood was easygoing. As always, Granny took care to wear gloves and a dress with long sleeves, but she had never bothered with smoke to calm them. 

She reached down to pick up the hammer and nails, and began to pin the edges of the mesh over the hive entrance. The weave was wide enough that bees could pass through freely, but the mesh made for an excellent mouse guard. Now that the weather had cooled, little creatures would be on the lookout for a warm, dry place to rest. A determined mouse could devastate honey stores given only a few days.

She stuck her tongue between her teeth as she worked. Her manner was deliberate. She moved from box to box, much like the bees themselves had moved between flowers in the summer. The day was warm and breezy. To Granny, it felt like the first warning of a mother calling for her children: pleasant for now, but with an inevitable edge. 

The final nail was tapped into place, the final mesh piece affixed. Granny stepped back and surveyed her six hives, nodding to herself with satisfaction. 

As the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, she went inside her cottage, lit a fire beneath her kettle, and slipped into her favorite chair. Eyes-half closed, she savored the tick of her timeless clock and the crackle of the stove fire.

She wondered if the village of Bad Ass was enjoying a reprieve. Nobody had been by her cottage in two days. 

\---

Granny Weatherwax quietly operated a still. The liquor was for medicinal purposes, despite occasional protesting from Gytha Ogg. The brew began its life as plums and ended its life as a moonshine that could be charitably described as brandy. Currently, however, it was in an unruly teenage phase.

Granny knelt on her shed’s dirt floor, watching closely as clear liquid trickled from a spout at the base of the copper still. It had nearly filled the bucket below. The drip from the early stage of distillation could chase infection from a wound or be used to strip stubborn paint. The fumes made her eyes water. She pushed a fresh bucket in place of the full one under the spout, and moved the first bucket just outside the open door. From beside it, she picked up two small logs and fed them into the stove.

She stepped outside the shed and watched grey smoke curl from the chimney. Puffy clouds dotted the bright sky. A half-hour would pass before she had to add more fuel.

Granny crossed the clearing over to the hives again. She’d been fretting a bit over the arrangement of the frames. Not only were the bees low on honey, but in a few boxes, they’d placed it poorly. She approached one hive and watched as the activity quieted around its mesh-covered entrance.

Her crabbed, gloved fingers curled around the wooden lid. Bees coated the underside as she lifted, crawling across one another. Beneath the lid, the box was filled with frames arranged in files. For whatever reason, they had been building honeycomb only on the left side. Granny gently pulled the golden frames free from the box and rearranged them, making sure that the cluster could find food in any direction. 

There was a creak from her front gate. Her head shot up as her eyes narrowed, shaded from the sun by the brim of her hat.

“Come ‘round back here,” Granny called, affecting irritability from the get-go. The next remark she sighed to herself. “What’s today’s trouble?” She replaced the lid atop the hive.

No one appeared behind the cottage. Granny stepped away from the hives and peered around the cottage’s cornerstones. The gate swung on its hinge in a merry gust. Nobody was there. She trudged over to latch it shut. Despite herself, she raised her chin and squinted down the path into the woods. The leaves piled deep where they’d fallen, undisturbed by visitors. She shook herself and went back to her work.

The second and third buckets came away from the still smelling more sweetly of plums and oak. As the fourth bucket began to collect, Granny briefly held a jar beneath the spout, then gave it an experimental sniff. She tilted the jar back and allowed a sip to reach her tongue. Her mouth curled upwards in a puckered, appraising smile.

Between pulling buckets, she worked with the bees. More frames were rearranged, then each hive was topped with sawdust-filled quilt boxes. These would keep the colonies warmer and absorb some dampness.

The day wore on. The clouds thickened. She went indoors a little earlier and put too many twigs in the stove fire. 

A thump against her door made her leap up from her chair. She winced as the sensation hit her knees. These days, she was too old to do much leaping up. Leave the leaping to young people.

She steadied herself on the arm of her chair. “Come in,” she called. “Kettle's on.” 

She mentally prepared a “what ails you my child?” but the door stayed shut. Seized with paranoia, she commanded her knees to obey her. When she opened the door, she saw a dry branch lying across her doorstep. It must have blown loose from a tree. Brown leaves still clung to the ends of its twigs.

Granny picked up the branch and tossed it, with some effort, into the brush.

She shut the door. She swept her dirt floor with quick, agitated movements. She made a second pot of tea. 

Nobody had been by her cottage in three days. 

\---

Nobody had been by her cottage in four days. 

The cottage, always tidy, was now immaculate. The dirt floor was practically polished. Her kettle, pots, and most of her silverware _had_ been polished. She’d already fussed with the honey frames again and it wasn’t yet noon. It pained her to admit it, but Granny was running out of things to _do_.

When had she last had so much time to herself? Sometimes, a couple days would pass when she’d be out borrowing, but generally someone did come around. Hence the need for the sign.

Perhaps, said a dark part of her, her time for being useful was coming to a close. Perhaps she was too old. She certainly felt old. Something about how the cold stayed in her bones, even when she was moving about or drinking scalding tea.

Perhaps they went to other witches. Perhaps she’d been standoffish and unpleasant for long enough that they sought out someone else to help their cow give milk, or to ease their gout, or to comfort their dying relatives. Perhaps other witches knew something she didn’t. 

“Heh! That one’s easy to rule out, at least,” she muttered.

Talking to yourself! Well, there was a sign of senility. Suppose someone did come by, they mustn’t hear her _talking to herself_ , like some kind of _old person_.

She considered going into the village of Bad Ass but this felt somehow desperate. What was she going to do? Just hang around and wait for someone to ask for something? 

Perhaps something horrible had happened. She would be the last to know, living as she did at the edge of town.

Granny’s bed was stiff as she lay down atop it, still wearing her dress and heavy boots. Her hat, she’d unpinned and placed on the nightstand. Sunlight shone in dusty shafts from her open window onto the cardboard sign she held in her hands.

She closed her eyes.

\---

Mrs. Scorbic, the formidable cook of Lancre castle, had been banished from the kitchens. In her usual place stood Queen Magrat Garlick. Ingredients and implements for baking lay on the table in front of her, in this case, like torturers’ instruments. She hummed a tuneless tune as she grated zucchini over a large bowl.

Nanny Ogg stood beside her, looking from the woodcut picture in the open cookbook to the ingredients on the table. She elbowed Magrat helpfully. “Looks like you’re missing a few bits. I’ll just nip ‘round to the cellar and find some eggs and butter - ”

“Actually,” said Magrat, “It’s a cake with no dairy. It’s Better For You.”

“Fancy that! What holds it together?”

“Applesauce,” Magrat said proudly.

Nanny Ogg regarded her with the same suspicion she’d employ investigating a crime scene. “And it’s full of vegetables? I can see you’ve got carrots and zucchini - ”

“And honey-lemon icing.” Magrat beamed.

“Lovely of you to think of Esme,” Nanny said diplomatically, “But she doesn’t go in much for birthdays.” And Nanny suspected that poisoning her wouldn’t endear her further to the idea.

Magrat sighed. In the tradition of families everywhere, when Magrat moved away and they stopped spending too much time together, her relationship with Granny had improved immensely. Especially since midsummer, Granny had seemed more powerful than ever, but also more… finite. The young queen found herself awkwardly looking for ways to express her fondness.

Magrat said, “I know the cake might be a stretch. But that isn’t all I’m doing. I have asked,” she gave what she thought was a conspiratorial smile, “For the people of her village to give her a break.”

“What was that, my girl?”

“Not to ask her for anything for a week. I could have commanded, being queen now, but that didn’t feel right.”

“Oh dear.” Nanny was suddenly wringing her hands. “Oh dear, oh dear. That’ll be the last thing she needs. She’ll go mad if folk don’t come ‘round asking her for things.”

“But she always complains! Always says how she wants to be left alone.”

“Oh, she thinks she likes to be left alone. Alone in moderation, sure,” Nanny said. “But she likes to be needed, because she likes being a witch.” 

Magrat continued grating zucchini, somewhat miserably. “I sent Shawn over with stern words for everyone about how they weren’t to ask her for anything. For a week!”

“You’ve still got a lot to learn about how she works.” Nanny patted her shoulder amiably. “Not to worry. We’ll just send someone her way. Who needs something?”

Magrat sagged with relief. She turned to open a sack of flour sitting on the ground, measuring out scoopfuls into a bowl. “I offered to do some witching to pick up the slack, but there’s too much. Weaver the thatcher wanted a spell to stop it from raining until he finished getting his hay into the barn. Sarah Tockley asked me to divine the best day to cut the pumpkins from the fields, and also, could I make them grow any bigger? And I haven’t even started making that poultice for Baker the weaver’s ankle - ”

“That’s a good one,” Nanny interrupted, “Start there. When Baker the weaver comes by, tell him you’re fresh out of poultice and that he should pay Esme a visit.” 

While Magrat was turned around, Nanny swiped a discrete finger into the sugary slurry of applesauce and zucchini. Cautiously, she tasted it. 

Not half-bad, actually.

Magrat straightened, clutching her bowl of flour. “But I can do a bit of witching now and again. I’m sure I can manage…”

She withered under a stern look from Nanny Ogg. “You are in the process of baking Esme a cake made from vegetables. Giving her something to do is just as good.” She added mildly, “Probably better.”

Magrat sighed. “You really think so?”

“Haven’t had to _think_ about it at all! I know so.” Nanny smiled, warm and one-toothed. “And speaking of things I know, it’s not too late to add a stick of butter.”

Hidden beside the sack of flour, a mouse gnawed resolutely on some zucchini shavings.

\---

It had stormed in the night. Rain battered down the leaves and plastered them against the ground. The maple had been hit hard. Its remaining gold leaves trembled against its wet bark.

Granny trudged out to the hives, her heavy boots sucking in the mud. She walked stiffly, sore from too long laying down. 

No bees hovered outside on this gloomy morning. She approached the nearest box to press her ear against the side. It hummed with a strong, comforting buzz. Her waterproofing, at least, was as good as ever. She crossed the yard to listen at the other hives, nodding to herself.

Behind her, she heard her front gate open with a creak of hinges.

She said, “Morning, Mister Baker.”

“How did you - ”

She turned around to see Baker the weaver frozen with one hand on the gate, eyes wide. 

It was the little things in life.

“Mistress Weatherwax,” he said, pulling off his hat, “I hate to be a bother. It’s my trouble. I wondered if you had something - ”

She moved, businesslike, back toward her cottage. He followed just behind, favoring his right ankle. Once inside, he sat opposite her as she began to pull jars down from a high shelf in the kitchen. 

“Never a moment’s peace ‘round here…” she grumbled.

Baker the weaver stayed silent. If he were forced to describe Granny Weatherwax’s expression, he might have said ‘visible relief.’ 

They didn’t speak much as she worked. She took pinches of herbs from the larger jars and tossed them into a stone bowl. She ground the mixture with a mortar held in her veined hands.

Nevertheless, Granny couldn’t help but prod. “This is more Magrat’s sort of thing, isn’t it?” she asked, with a tone that was striving for ‘innocent’ but was better described as, ‘predator laying in ambush.’

“I did ask her first, Mistress Weatherwax,” he replied cautiously. “Although it’s a bit awkward now that she’s queen and everything. But she told me to go to you.”

“Hmph. Humoring an old woman.”

“What was that?”

“Just… talkin’ to myself,” she said brusquely. Then her frown deepened. She finished without further conversation, pouring the herbs into the small jar and brushing some stray pieces off the table to top it off. As the man departed, he left a soft, knitted scarf folded neatly on her kitchen table. That gesture would be Mrs. Baker’s doing. Generosity toward witches was sensible common-folk behavior, too.

She walked him out to the gate, where she was only slightly surprised to see Mrs. Tockley striding up the path, looking embarrassed but resolute. She clutched a pumpkin under one arm. 

Despite herself, a bemused smile briefly upturned Granny's mouth. Then she schooled herself back to brusque irritation.

Once she’d finished imparting squash-related wisdom, Granny walked Mrs. Tockley out to the gate, where they were met by a teenage girl standing just outside the fence. She wanted a magical way to contact her cousin, who’d run away to the next valley over to be with a sweetheart. Granny suggested to her that, rather than magic, she borrow a donkey study enough to make the trip. In the mean time, she made a mental note to find the girl extra hands help with her harvest.

The day continued in a similar fashion. As soon as she resolved one minor ailment, issue, or dispute, another would pop up in its place like a mushroom. Around noon, someone had asked her to fly the short distance to Slice to check on Mary Lester’s chicken, which had laid the same egg three times. When she returned to her cottage, there was a small queue of people hovering around her gate. Granny tried to avoid looking genuinely pleased with herself. Magrat must’ve barely held them at bay.

She treated her visitors with curt exasperation, and conveyed to each of them that their problems were petty, annoying, no concern of hers, and that she'd do her damnedest to help them. Then she did so, mostly with headology, advice, and simple medicine. In Granny’s experience, doing actual magic was an occasional occupational hazard of witching; most of it was just showing up for people. 

Of course, to the citizens of Lancre, 'magic' included all the things Granny did.

Late in the afternoon, she finished her conversation with a troll named Alabaster, who had apparently come down from the mountains just to ask her about bridge upkeep. What did she know about bridge upkeep?

Night fell fast this time of year. As Alabaster sipped his tea, the light dimmed to gold, casting long blue shadows behind the trees. As they stepped outside together, Granny spotted two final figures standing outside her gate.

The first was a bedraggled, straw-haired young woman. The second was a dumpy woman with a face like a grape completing its transition to raisin. Between them hovered a broomstick. Balanced atop the broomstick was a small cardboard box.

“Hullo, Esme,” Nanny Ogg said brightly. “Gracious me, is that a troll?”

The troll inclined his head, which made the ragged moss hanging from his chin briefly brush the ground. He lumbered past them and away down the tree-lined path.

“Evening, Granny,” said Magrat. She took the cardboard box off the broomstick into both of her hands.

Granny approached the fence and leaned on it. “Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself? After the day you saddled me with?”

Magrat sighed. “Pieced that together, did you?” She smiled, fond and a little weary. “I had to fly all around the kingdom to tell them it was alright to bother you.”

Granny fixed her with a glare. It wasn't her worst glare, maybe only fifty percent death-by-icicle. “And what makes you assume it was alright for them to bother me?”

To her credit, Magrat nearly held her ground. “Well, I didn’t want them to keep coming to the castle. And Nanny told me that ah, missing visitors might make you nervous.”

“Nervous?” Granny said sharply, “What would I have to be nervous about? Kingdom can’t get on with me. That’s no surprise.” She eyed the cardboard box suspiciously. “And what have you got there?”

Magrat lifted the lid to reveal a sagging monstrosity of confectionery. Icing sloughed off its uneven sides like a candle facing a strong wind. She looked a little apologetic. “I wanted to wish you a happy b - ”

In the dying evening light, a lone bee emerged from its hive.

“Don’t be soppy.”

“Birthdays aren’t soppy! They just... are.”

While they spoke, the bee drifted toward the cake box and alighted softly atop the icing.

The three witches stared at it.

“Magrat Garlick - ”

“Technically I am queen - ”

“Have you, per chance, got _honey_ in your royal stores? Or have you used it all to make… this.”

Magrat looked puzzled. “We’ve got plenty. Huge pots of it in the cellar from last year.”

“Tell you what,” said Granny, who was suddenly smiling in the kind of hard way that made elves nervous, “Keep the cake. But come back tomorrow with six jars of it.”

“What?”

“Humor an old woman, would you?”

“If you’d like,” Magrat said dubiously.

“And you.” Granny turned now to Nanny Ogg, who was now striving to look wide-eyed and innocent. “I knows you know it’s the time of year where I finish my brandy. I remind you again that I don’t make much of it, and it is reserved for medicinal purposes. And we are not celebrating anything tonight.”

Nanny sighed and elbowed Magrat. “It was worth it to try.”

“You’re sure you wouldn’t like us to stay?” Magrat asked. “Just as a bit of company for old time’s sake?”

“After all the company you’ve given me today?” Granny grinned. “No.”

They departed by broomstick, flying up and into the dark sky as the last glimmer of sunlight faded from the horizon. In the dark, Granny walked back to the hives and lay a gloved hand against one box. She hadn’t thought to ask if anyone had spare honey. She's just assumed everyone faced the same shortage as her. Completely daft, when you thought about it.

Six jars would more than cover what the bees needed.

For the second time that day, she pressed her cheek against the hive to hear the gentle roar of its activity. She knew she wouldn’t win every battle, but she was glad to win this one.

Granny Weatherwax went inside her cottage. She lit a fire beneath her kettle, slipped into her favorite chair, and savored the tick of her timeless clock.

About a dozen people had come by her cottage today. But sometimes, people left you alone.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're using fan fiction as a reference for practical beekeeping: you _can_ supplement bees' stores with their own honey or honey from a trusted local source. But it's not a great idea to use honey of unknown origin to feed a hive. It can transmit bacterial infections. The rest of the beekeeping in this story is solid fundamentals, though ;)


End file.
